


An Indulgence

by Jade_Waters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:05:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Waters/pseuds/Jade_Waters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock enjoys a rainy morning in bed with John. Simple, straightforward, probably not terribly original, but hopefully enjoyable. Set loosely between series 1 & 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Indulgence

Rain beats steadily against Sherlock’s bedroom window. The blue-gray of a wet dawn glows off the pale skin of his back, hides John beneath him in shadow. Propped up on one hand, Sherlock’s trapezium and latissimi dorsi muscles undulate like the tide, slow but steady, gentle but all-consuming. Though the blankets have slipped off the bed, the sheet still clings to Sherlock’s waist, held in place by John’s leg, which, in turn, Sherlock keeps hooked over his hip. 

The summer air is humid, and both men are sweating. Sherlock meticulously catalogs John, letting himself stare, drink in - drown in - every detail. Not the quick glances of daylight hours that tell him where John has been and what John is thinking about, but a marination of all that John is. 

Sherlock does not consider himself a particularly sexual being. The physiological responses are predictable. Boring. Yet with John, he finds his own resulting chemical cocktail - dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins, and oh, yes, oxytocin - rather intriguing and somewhat addictive. Sherlock, silent, the better to hear John’s breathing (never boring), dissects each burst of hormones that results from John’s breathy little gasps, and measures how the cocktail shifts when he hears his name slip out of John. Yes, John does this to him. 

Only John, with his head tossed back on a pillow, hair flopping in new and fascinating directions, eyes squeezed shut, just feeling Sherlock move inside of him. It is easy for John to let all the sensory data just wash over him, especially now, in the early morning. Before the day brings things to fuss and worry over. Before Sherlock has a chance to say anything not good. Eventually, all the data will pull Sherlock down, too, but it takes longer for him. He doesn’t mind. Quiet, intimate moments are rare for them, and, despite his usual protestations against dreadful calm, here, with John, he indulges.

When a low, long rumble of thunder rolls over London, John opens his eyes, arches into Sherlock, begs without speaking. His breathing is heavy, his temperature nearly two degrees above normal. In the blue dark, Sherlock cannot distinguish between the color of John’s irises and the black of his pupils, but he sees in the furrow of his eyebrows and tilt of his chin all the words he needs: please, need, love, yes, yours, yes, yes. 

Sherlock leans down, deltoid straining against trapezius slightly as he reaches to brush his lips against John’s, content to breathe the other’s breath. John wraps his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, pulls him into a deeper kiss, for once uninterested in breathing. Reluctantly, Sherlock lets his eyes slip closed, feels his hips speed up not entirely of his own volition. He feels the rather inexorable tug of the end low in his belly, a fresh wave of heat ignites beneath his skin and he begins to pant into their kiss. The tingle of increased blood pressure, flushed capillaries, tell him he cannot stay above it all much longer. He does not wish to. His hand shifts from holding John’s leg to wrap around his cock. John moans and tries to pull him closer with his leg. So close now, Sherlock obliges, pushing in as deep as he can, thrusting faster and harder, doing his best to stroke John in time. 

With a strangled cry, John breaks their kiss and throws his head back, hands clenching in Sherlock’s hair, back arching, muscles spasming. Later, Sherlock will catalog each bodily reaction, but in this moment, he is swept away, and comes, finally blissfully unaware of the world. 

His arm gives out and he falls to his elbow, rests his forehead against John’s, hot breath mingling between them as their hearts beat against each other’s ribs. Sherlock opens his eyes, feeling himself smile when he finds relaxed brown eyes gazing back at him. John’s hands move in long, firm strokes down his sides, pleasantly warm over his rapidly cooling skin. 

They kiss again, still slow and hushed, wrapped up in each other as the rain beats against the window.


End file.
